The Taste of Words on My Tongue

Words are pretty amazing things, really. Minds are mesas, and words we use to leap the gap. Words are symbols. They mean something other than what they are. They point to things, guiding lights, they are signal flags before a storm, they are open palms proffered, they are traffic signals, green and red. But people have noticed all this before.

What amazes me most about words is their physicality. They are all wavelength. All of them, on page or in air, they are light and sound, and they exist only because we have eyes and ears. The shape of an “a,” the round sounding of an “o,” they are things other than what they mean. The meaning could hang, and you still have a thing: onomatopoeic crash bang boom, the sounding of “um,” a “yum” of the words “luscious plum” on my tongue.

Damn you, poetry, weighty thing. Sitting on my chest for days and suffocating me until I spit you out, pushed from my airways along with the crust of pizza that got lodged next to you, mouth oh’ed from the cough and sonorous sounds coming out, to end in a bit of spittle dripping from my chin.

And these… these are words. Read them aloud. Feel what they do to your mouth, your lips, like a kiss. There are days when words aren’t for conveying, but feeling, rolling them around in your mouth, clacking them against your teeth, tripping them off tongue-tips ’til they hit the air. Gift them to me: I’ll pass them along.

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